Chapter 11

While most twenty-five-year-olds celebrated a quarter-century with huge bashes, immaculate celebrations, defining vacations, and spectacular fireworks, all I wanted to do on the second day of February, my birthday, was think. Plot the future. Plan my life. Change the cycle. I gathered a stack of old magazines from the garage and began cutting out pictures and words that symbolized the life I wanted and pasted them onto a visionary poster. I’d read about making one in Essence magazine. How seeing images of what you want in life helps manifest them. I cut out tiny pictures of career women like Oprah and female authors, with bestseller lists coloring my poster. The words “Confidence,” “Love,” and “Power” curved around cutouts of married couples, smiling families, and wedding dresses. In giant letters across the top I’d pasted the word “Happiness.”

I taped the finished art project to the wall next to my bed, arranging it in the middle of pictures scattered about that represented my past. Glancing over the old-school photos, my eyes rested on a shot from high school. I remembered the day, crowded at a cafeteria table, cheesing in B-boy stances for Meredith’s brand-new Polaroid camera. In the picture I was standing back to back, arms crossed, with Michael Tubman, my high school freshman crush.

School was a peaceful sanctuary for me, the only place where I felt free from the constant carping at home. Between books, classes, notes, and bells, I surrounded myself with friends to channel my personal focus with gossip, jokes, and crushes on boys. I’d lost my virginity freshman year at fourteen years old. In retrospect, I was too young and immature to deal with the psychological repercussions of having sex. But at the time, on that specific day, it seemed right.

“Meena!” my friends shouted like a chorus as I arrived at our table, third from the right, next to the water fountain, across from the salad bar, in the cafeteria of building two.

“Hey, y’all, what’s up?” I responded, still sluggish from the six o’clock alarm. I’d been up till after midnight talking to my second best friend, captain of the varsity girls track team, Doreen Robertson, about the same thing we discussed every day: boys, clothes, the single mothers we wanted to trade in.

“Wake up!” she snapped, before stuffing a cream cheese–filled bagel inside her mouth. I always wanted a body like Doreen’s. Full 34C breasts. Jeans fitted around a plump booty. I had to tighten my belt into the last hole, waistband gathering up, just to get the fit that Doreen wore so naturally. The guys loved her.

“Wake up, so you can get your man,” said Meredith, popping up from under the table. Meredith Benjamin had been my first best friend since she moved to town in the fourth grade. Always seated next to each other in homeroom, we became close because our initials were both MB. We even joined the track team together. She ran the third leg on the 4 x 400 meter relay team. I was anchor.

“Look to the east,” Doreen said.

I glanced to the left and saw Carl Murphy. Head buried in a book. Sitting at a table alone. He looked up briefly as our eyes met before nervously stuffing his head back inside the pages. He’d have been a cutey if he wasn’t so weird.

“That’s west, girl. East, I said. East. Look to your right,” Doreen said. “Not toward the geek.”

I glanced to the right and my eyes met Michael Tubman’s. He stretched his neck past his boys, nodding toward me. I nervously smiled back, before turning away to inspect every item in my purse.

“I love him,” I said, with a Kool-Aid grin. “Is he still staring at me?”

Doreen’s eyes popped out. “Girl, fix your hair, fix your hair!” She let out a boy-group-fanatic squeal. “He’s walking over!”

But I couldn’t find my brush. Rummaging through the tissues and papers that clogged my purse, I pulled out a hot pink comb just as he approached.

“Hey, Meena,” I heard him say behind me. I could see Meredith and Doreen stretch their eyes wide as I turned to face him.

“Oh hey,” I said, doing my best to feign a nonchalant tone. Meredith discreetly pulled the comb out of my hand. “What’s up?”

He passed a piece of lined paper folded up into a small square. My name was written in red ink across the middle. “Let me know what you think when you read it, okay?”

“I, um . . .” I managed, glancing at the tiny package. “Okay . . .”

“I’ll see you in Mrs. Johnson’s class,” he said before walking away.

I opened the letter.

Dear Meena,

You looked pretty yesterday. I forgot to tell you that I think you look nice in pink. Call me tonight. I don’t get home till after 7p cuz of practice. But my parents are out of town. Maybe you can come over since you only live around the corner. Let me know.

Michael

The table erupted into gasps.

“Oh my God,” Doreen and Meredith said simultaneously. “What’s it say?”

“He wants me to come over tonight,” I screamed. “He said his parents are out of town.”

It was like déjà vu: the table broke into gasps again.

I’d had a crush on Michael since the first day of ninth grade. Twinkling straight teeth. Chiseled chin. Long eyelashes. He was one of the few freshmen, like me, who’d managed to make varsity. He’d done it playing football. I was the occasional track star. Sharing Mrs. Johnson’s first period science class together, we’d grown to know each other after being paired for a lab experiment. Homework sessions turned to long talks about life and dreams, including his hope to play for the New York Giants. He was funny and chivalrous, pulling out chairs and opening doors. He referred to me as “Beautiful.” I’d never had anyone say that about me. I found myself fantasizing the entire last marking period of school, hoping to be girlfriend to the most popular boy in the ninth grade. Hoping we’d go to the same college, marry after graduation, and I’d have baby boys who’d grow up to play ball just like their daddy.

His letter, folded up tightly into a tiny Chinese star, proved that the dream was manifesting. He was finally ready to ask me out.

“What are you gonna wear?” Doreen asked. “I have to do your hair. Oh my God, are you really going over there?”

“Why are you rhyming?” Meredith asked, making us all crack up. “What the hell?”

“I don’t know if I can go,” I said, shaking my head. “You know my mom won’t let me go to a boy’s house.”

“Well, you gotta,” said Doreen. “I mean, this is Michael Tubman.”

“Yeah, but this is Meena’s mother we’re talking about,” Meredith chimed in. “Hitler in a skirt.”

“So she needs to plan her escape from concentration camp,” Doreen replied. “It can’t be that hard. I sneak out all the time.”

“That’s ’cause your mom is cool,” Meredith said, sipping the last of our shared orange juice. “You’re lucky. We are not.”

I gazed at Michael’s letter. But my parents are out of town. Maybe you can come over. I kept rereading that letter, forward and backward. Michael Tubman wanted me to visit his house. Wow.

The loud chime of the bell ringing for homeroom slapped me back into reality.

“So you going?” Doreen asked, zipping up her backpack. “Are you gonna finally do it?”

“You don’t have to do it if you don’t want to, Meena,” Meredith stressed. “Don’t let Doreen pressure you.”

“I’m not pressuring her,” she snapped. “I’m just saying she needs to get on it now while the opportunity presents itself. Because if she doesn’t, somebody else will.”

Doreen nodded toward Michael’s table, where Sheila Anderson, the class whore, was in overt touchy mode. She grabbed him tight, forcing a hug. As he put his arms around her, she rubbed his hand and eased it over her butt. He smiled and laughed while his friends clapped with approval.

“Told you,” Doreen said to me. “Don’t lose your chance trying to be Miss Goody Two-shoes.”

“Who the hell is Miss Goody Two-shoes? And why do people say that? Who is she?” Meredith asked as she handed back my comb. “Come on, Meena, let’s be out. Not only are you always late, but you always do the right thing. And you’ll do it this time.”

So that night, I planned my escape into Michael’s arms.

11:00 p.m . . .

“Good night!” I screamed downstairs, making sure Mom knew I was officially going to bed. “I said, good night!”

“Did you brush your teeth?”

“Yeeees,” I said, shivering with the shaky vowel. “Good night.”

“How many times are you going to say good night, Meena?”

“Um . . . I love you!”

The sound of a metal spoon mixing sugar inside porcelain was my cue that Mom was getting ready for bed. A cup of chamomile was the last thing she drank while watching the evening news. Its warm flavors relaxed her mind and tired pupils enough to pull them into a deep, six-hour sleep. She never made it to the end of the broadcast without snoring.

I pulled the covers over me and stared at the ceiling, waiting for Mom’s bedroom door to close. After twenty minutes, I began to sweat. The mixture of cheap polyester comforter fibers, unsure nerves, and the pink sweater Aunt Connie had bought me for Christmas made beads build on my chest, dampen my forehead, and moisten my neck. I pushed back the blanket, fanning myself with the sheets that felt like a used baby wipe. As soon as I heard the closing click of Mom’s door, I hopped out of bed, sprayed on Victoria’s Secret body spray—under the arms, over the chest, between the legs—and grabbed the plush Macy’s Snoopy I’d gotten after the Thanksgiving parade. Positioning it on the pillow, I hoped that if Mom did walk into my room, she’d be too tired to see it wasn’t me. Just in case, I took my night scarf, tied it around Snoopy’s head, and threw the covers atop him so the navy silk fabric with tiny yellow flowers peeked over the blanket.

Butterflies prepared to take flight as I hopped onto the radiator, opened my window, pulled up the screen, and climbed out onto the edge of the roof. He must’ve been a descendant of Harriet Tubman, because Michael Tubman inspired me to escape for freedom. I could feel his warm hands wrapped around my body like it was a football, with a hug so intensely passionate and tight my bones melted. I turned back to pull down the window, glancing at the clock on my dresser: 11:42 p.m. I told Michael I’d be there around eleven thirty. But I couldn’t have moved faster. The fear of Mom’s wrath paralyzed me. I could see a year of invisible chains banning me from touching the TV, telephone, or going to the mall. But I had to take a stand, on a roof in Jersey, at midnight, in the cold suburban dark evening, with a patch of bushy grass to break my fall for love.

I hadn’t realized that the jump from the second floor was so high. I hadn’t figured out how to explain a broken leg if I happened to land wrong. But I needed to get going. So I sat on the edge of the roof, slowly, steadily, nudging my butt forward, toward the edge, till finally I had nowhere to go but down.

“One, two, three,” I whispered to myself. But I didn’t move, gulping, staring down at the hard, bone-killing ground. “Okay, I can do this,” I said out loud. “One, two, three!”

On the last number I jumped, past the kitchen window, into the garden, atop the begonias, onto my feet, with a slight roll back to my butt. I felt like Catwoman—limber, agile, sneaky, fast. In seconds, I was up running to the side of the house, dusting the leaves off my ten-speed bike and pedaling like the mama police were in pursuit. I never looked back, speeding down the dark block, breezing through the late-night spring air. Free from Deena Mitchell’s restrictions. Free to be me.

That emancipation carried me away during the short, five-minute ride while I imagined what Michael and I would do: how he’d grab me, pull my head back, caress my neck, kiss me twice, like on an episode of The Young and the Restless.

When I got to Michael’s, I hopped off my pink Huffy ten-speed and sized up his stereotypical suburban lawn. A white fence outlined in tiny yellow tulips. A fountain with an angel spraying water from its mouth. A basketball hoop at the end of the driveway. The butterflies began to fill my right and left shoulders, fussing, whispering in my ear. What are you doing here, Meena? Why did you sneak out? You should go home before Mom wakes up.

But as soon as I was ready to turn around and head home, Michael opened the door. He was smiling, and his dimples twinkled, adding a sparkle to his movie-star teeth.

“Hey, Meena!” he said, standing with a phone to his ear. “I thought you changed your mind.”

I paused, unsure of what to say, nervous and embarrassed by his charm and forthrightness. “Your hair looks nice.”

“This? Oh, the wind was crazy . . .” I suddenly found the ground, the most fascinating sight in the world. “But thanks.”

“You can come in, ya know,” he said with a giggle. “I mean, unless you’re leaving.”

“Um . . .” I stammered, tiptoeing through the doorway, nervously looking over my shoulder. “No . . .”

I stepped into the porch, and he guided me through a huge family room with a black leather couch in front of a movie screen–size TV with ESPN blasting. Wedding pictures adorned the coffee table. Family photos of him, his mother, and his father at a fair, wearing matching sweatshirts. A group shot of about twenty people wearing T-shirts that read “Tubman Family Reunion.”

Michael grabbed my hand and led me to his bedroom. It was decorated with a mixture of mahogany and blue accents. His Pop Warner football trophies aligned wall shelves, next to plaques, certificates, footballs, and NFL jerseys from the Giants. He walked me to the bed.

“You look really pretty,” he said as we sat down. “I like the way you look in pink.”

“Thanks,” I said, digging in my tiny purse. I pulled out a tissue and squeezed it in my hand. “Um, you have a nice room.”

“Uh-huh,” he said, moving closer to me, grabbing my hand. “My mom decorated it. She’s good at that kinda stuff.”

“So, what have you been doing?”

“Who, me?” He nudged a few inches closer, playing with my hand. “Waiting for you.”

Then he kissed me. But I didn’t move, stiff in shock, letting his lips do the maneuvering. Letting him slip his tongue into my mouth. Letting him run his hand up under my sweater and over my white lace bra onto my breasts. He squeezed them hard. But I didn’t complain. This was what I wanted. I was going to be his girlfriend. With his other hand, he squeezed my other breast and pushed me down on the bed, kissing me and grinding. I felt him playing with my bra. Desperately trying to unfasten it. After long seconds of maneuvering, he gave up. And I felt him unbuttoning my pants, pulling down the zipper and slipping his hand under my panties. He rubbed my vagina, petting its soft virginal opening. Next thing I knew, my jeans were down and he was inside me. Burning. Pain. Like something rubbing hard on dry, broken skin. The hurt was unbearable. I gasped and tried to hold in the whimper. I didn’t want him to know this was my first time. I didn’t want him to realize I didn’t know how to do it, that it felt like my flesh was tearing apart, that I wanted to cry.

“You okay?” he whispered.

“Uh-huh,” I said, lying there, letting him push deeper inside.

He felt so big, like a tree trunk squeezing into an ant hole. I squirmed, trying to feign enjoyment, but the pain . . .

“Okay, stop,” I begged. “Stop.”

“You all right?”

“I have to go to the bathroom.”

“You okay?”

“Yeah,” I said, pulling up my panties. “I just gotta go real quick.”

Stepping inside the bathroom, I looked in the mirror. Hair a mess. Face twisted from the hurt of each movement. When I checked my underwear, I could see blood in the seat; tiny specks stained the middle. The burning sensation between my legs inflamed my body as I peed; I held in the urge to scream, closing my eyes to hide from reality. No one ever told me sex felt this way. I thought it was supposed to be an experience that floated bodies above beds, into clouds, and across the heavens. But it was more like a torturous tearing of flesh. Right then I decided: that was my first and last time.

The next day, I limped to school. As much as I tried not to, despite the bowlegged feeling of a large crater drilled between my legs. But the soreness I felt lingered from the night before, and not just in my vagina but in my heart and head, accented with a fleeting feeling of shameful embarrassment.

“Sooooo, did you talk to Michael?” asked Doreen, smiling hard. “You go to his crib?”

“Oh, I don’t know, girl. I didn’t even talk to him last night,” I said, looking through my book bag for something, anything. “He was at practice pretty late.”

“Why are you standing like that?” Meredith sat eyeing me before getting up out her seat. “You look . . . crooked.”

“Crooked how?”

“Like this,” she said, mocking my stance, likening it to that of a constipated hunchback. “Did you fall again running to the bus stop?”

“Ooh, I remember that!” Doreen screamed, laughing. “Remember when she fell running from her dog in those white tights! And then it grabbed her purse and ran down the street?”

Meredith and Doreen busted out laughing.

“I’m good. Thank you for asking, stupids,” I said, rolling my eyes. “I . . . just . . . hit my knee this morning.”

“You are so clumsy, damn.” Doreen pulled out a compact to comb her hair. “Better not let Michael know that. He likes them model-looking girls. You could be one, but you need to learn how to walk, instead of tripping all over the place. And you need to put some makeup on. How come you don’t wear makeup?”

“I can’t be a model. I’m too short.”

“You don’t have to be tall to be a model, Meena,” Meredith added. “You could do catalogs. You’re pretty, you got the look. All skinny and everything. Long neck. Nice smile.”

“Whatever,” I replied, attempting to slowly sit, before feeling the pain of the squat and deciding to stand. “I’ma go to the bathroom.”

“Good. When you come back, be off your period,” snapped Doreen. “Crankiness doesn’t look good on you.”

I turned to walk toward the girls’ room when my eyes met Michael’s. He turned away quickly. During Mrs. Johnson’s class, he did the same, rushing out of the classroom before I could speak to him. I wondered whether he was embarrassed, too. Perhaps he didn’t know how to talk about it either. So after lunch, I decided to go to his locker. As I limped down the hallway, I saw a congregation of the football team standing next to him. The closer I got, the more they snickered. I smiled at Michael as I walked up.

“Hey,” I said, smiling. “What’s up?”

“Oh, what’s up?” he murmured, not even looking at me. “Yo, I’ma talk to you later.”

“Um, okay,” I said, watching him walk away. His boy Rex put a heavy arm around me. “So you gonna let Michael hit it again?” He smiled hard, the gap between his teeth whistling an air of unsaid words that read across a devious smirk.

“What?” I looked up at him, pushing his oversize bicep away. “Get off me.”

“Don’t play stupid. I’m his boy. I know what happened,” Rex said, removing his arm from around my shoulder. “You did a booty call. It’s cool. All the girls do it. Besides, you know what they say about girls who don’t have their daddies around. I know you couldn’t help it.”

I glanced back at Michael and found a smug look of triumph on his face.

“Trust me. I understand,” Rex continued, pulling out a notebook and pencil. “What’s your number?”

I turned to say something but couldn’t muster it up. Instead I speed-walked away, into the school library, where the only other person I noticed, hiding in an aisle, was Carl Murphy. I tiptoed past him, sitting in the comic book section.

He glanced up. “Hey, Meena.”

Holding back tears, biting my lip, I gave a little nod. As I whisked away I faintly heard him say, “I like your dress . . .”

But I couldn’t hear any words of praise. Ashamed, embarrassed, praying I wouldn’t develop a “reputation” like some of the other girls who’d slept with football players at school, I stayed hiding in the library for the rest of the day, reading astrology books on Michael’s two-faced sign of Gemini. Relieved that spring break began the next day. I called Michael three times over vacation. But the asshole never called or spoke to me again.

All these years later, as I sat remembering my first time having sex, sad thoughts of that painful past made me rip the picture with Michael off my bedroom wall and trash it. Then the phone rang.

“Happy birthday! Why are you awake?” Meredith asked on the other end. “Thought you’d be sleeping in since you took your special day off. It’s snowing outside. Good day to just stay in bed.”

“Thank you. But I’m not awake because I want to be,” I answered, shoving the picture deep in the garbage. “Mom woke me up making unnecessary noise this morning. I feel like she did it on purpose.”

“You and your mother . . .” Meredith said. “Was she talking to herself again?”

“Yeah, about her and Aunt Connie. They always fight.”

“You all should go to family therapy.”

“Yeah, okay.” I laughed. “Like they’d talk about their issues to a professional.”

“I think they might talk to me. I’d serve magic brownies and write a prescription of a dime bag of weed so they all could just smoke together, laugh, and love and calm down.”

“What?” My face was twisted up, looking at the clock. “It’s ten a.m. Are you high?”

“Girl . . . brownies. I had some last night. I mean, I made them for you. And I sampled some. And man, they just stay in your system forever.”

We paused for a second of silence before cracking up together.

Meredith always made me feel better. Like life was to be enjoyed and laughed at. Like giggling at yourself and taking a deep breath were essential keys to sanity. Like everything would be all right. Growing up, she was the only one who ever said that: “Everything is going to be all right.” She was the sister a lonely, only child like me had always wanted. She was my support and backup to the bullshit of life. She was my conscience and voice of reason even when I didn’t listen.

As she placed me on hold to run to the bathroom, I glanced at her smiling picture from last summer’s family reunion, surrounded by my cousins; she fit right in with the crew: Bernard, Bishop, Tommy, Winnie, and me. Meredith was the one who suggested we all take a walk that day. It was during that family walk when I realized how deep the curse ran.

Escaping from the reunion, we’d taken off toward a dead end that led to a short path, looping around the perimeter of a lake. Across a tiny bridge was a recreation area packed with kids on swings, a crowded basketball court, and families splashing in the swimming pool. We sat on a bench, watching an old lady throw slices of bread at pigeons.

“Hey, have you guys heard of some curse on the family?” I asked, watching a little girl with braided pigtails bouncing atop her daddy’s shoulders. “Some man curse we’re supposed to have?”

“Oh, hell yeah,” said Bernard. “Mom talks about it all the time.” He looked at Bishop, who nodded his head in agreement. “She says that’s why my dad cheated on her.”

Bernard and Bishop’s father, Jonathan, was a cop with the Philadelphia Police Department. After they were born, Aunt Cece pushed for marriage. But when Jonathan finally agreed, she hired a private investigator to conduct her version of premarital counseling. Hiring a friend who had once worked for the Philly PD, his inside sources found out that Jonathan was sleeping with a female cop on the force.

“Well, I don’t know about a curse. My dad says it’s a bullshit excuse for being single,” said Winnie. “He says the reason why so many women in this family have no man is because they’re too mean and angry. Too hard. He said they’re all looking for a man to make them happy.”

“Haaa!” Tommy let out a loud, drunken laugh that made him stumble to catch the fence before he fell.

“Before my dad died, he said he felt sorry for the women in the family,” Tommy said, dusting himself off. His words suddenly seemed more sober than ever. “He said that even though he didn’t get along with his sister, Grandma Fey, he felt sorry they were all alone. I remember him saying that it was strange how all of his female cousins and aunts never married and would get into a relationship with a man who abused them. If he didn’t beat or cheat, he’d usually up and die before marrying them.”

“That’s crazy,” I said under my breath. “I didn’t know about the dying part. But now I’m freaked out thinking about that guy Aunt Connie was supposed to marry, until he was killed a week before the wedding by a stray bullet.”

We all shook our heads in unison.

“Ooh, and you heard about one of the Camden cousins? I think her name is Diane?” Winnie asked, looking around for someone to recognize which cousin she was talking about. No one knew. “Anyway, she had to get her tubes tied and she can’t have babies ’cause some guy gave her an STD and she didn’t know.”

“Damn,” said Bishop and Bernard in unison.

“Maybe the curse is true,” said Tommy with a little giggle. “But it do be mean women in this family. Like you, Meena, lookin’ at me mean all the time. Haaaa!”

I caught myself giving him a repugnant look, nose wrinkled, smelling the nasty aroma of nonsense coming from his mouth. My face only softened when I realized everyone was staring at me, stuck on the verge of laughing.

“Yeah, I learned a lot about you and your family that day,” Meredith said. “It explained why you think the way you do. Date the guys you do. Oh! And speaking of dating someone. You know who I saw the other day?” she said excitedly. “Joey Williams.”

After losing my virginity to Michael, I stayed away from boys, especially him, for the next two years. By the eleventh grade, I’d decided I wanted an older, more mature boy, Joey Williams. A senior, he went to the alternative school for bad kids after fighting got him expelled from everywhere else in the district. After passing each other while walking home from the bus stop, we realized this shared route was magical destiny and immediately became a couple. It didn’t take long for afternoon phone calls to escalate into after-school visits. He treated me like his thug queen. Hanging out at the mall holding hands. McDonald’s Happy Meals every day after school. Random gifts, teddy bears, and candy; he even let me wear his Africa medallion. Joey was a regular guest before Mom got home from work. We’d bump and grind, like the horny teenagers we were, on my bed, on the couch, or on the floor. At sixteen, sex didn’t hurt anymore. My painful experience freshman year with Michael became a fleeting thought of the past when Joey came into my life. He slowly wooed me into sleeping with him. Soft, careful, and tender, asking every few seconds, “You okay? You all right?”

I’d nod my head, lying still, breathing deeply, imagining the faces of pleasure I’d seen on late-night HBO. Beautiful women enjoying the moment of sex. I wanted to be like them—gorgeous, fabulous, and masterful in bed.

I used to let Joey follow me into my bathroom, lock the door, and grind on me, atop the fluffy blue rug beneath the sink. We did it standing up, lying down, out of breath like two playful, raw puppy dogs. He’d exhale whispers of how I was the best. I’d make small noises, like the ladies on HBO. And this was our routine, for months, until my mother came home early from work one afternoon.

I heard the grumbling car pull up to the driveway, and fortunately, the entrance to the basement was inside the bathroom. As my stomach flipped into butterfly-fluttering mode, Joey and I flew across the bathroom, gathering our clothes, buckling pants. I fixed the rug. He grabbed his sock. Pants half-buckled, he fled down the basement stairs and out the cellar door, running across the backyard. Watching him escape, I turned to fly up from the basement and close the door. I was about to walk out of the bathroom as Mom met me at the threshold.

She marched forward, nudging me back with the strength of a soldier. I could have sworn she sniffed the smell of sex in the air.

“Did you have someone in the house?”

“No.”

She looked around, surveyed the bathroom, checked the trash, opened the toilet, looked behind the radiator—and there, crumpled up, with a tiny brown stain in the crotch, was Joey’s underwear. Fuck.

“Tell me the truth, Meena.”

“Ill, what’s that?” I said, feigning dumb. Hoping to win an Oscar.

“Meena . . .” she said, holding the underwear with her two fingers at the tips, nose turned up. Suddenly the floor, my toes, anything besides direct contact with her eyes became interesting.

Still, I knew it was better to lie. Being honest was a death sentence; the truth was something she wouldn’t accept or believe anyway. She always thought I was lying, even when I wasn’t, so I self-fulfilled her prophecy by becoming a vivid storyteller.

“Did you have sex?”

“No.”

“Did you have sex, Meena?”

“No,” I repeated a little more passionately, yet not too sassy for fear of encouraging a slap.

She picked up the air freshener and sprayed. Sucked her teeth and hissed under the breath, “Stay here.”

Left alone for a long, uncomfortable stretch, I waited with knots tangling my insides. Mom returned with a small box. “I want you to use this.”

The word “douche” stood out in black letters between her fingers.

“Read the directions and use it to clean up.” She waited for the words to sink in. “Go ahead. Do it now!”

I hurried to pull down my pants. She watched, closing the door behind her. “I’m so disappointed in you. Don’t think about watching TV. Unplug that phone and put it on my bed.”

Standing in front of the toilet, I stared at the instructions, following the diagram that showed how to squeeze the vinegar mixture between my vaginal walls. Pulling out the plastic device, I stuck the contraption between my legs. It felt strange, like the cylinder of cardboard holding a tampon in place. I squeezed the device as cold liquid poured inside me, dripping into the toilet water. When done, Mom opened the bathroom door. I handed her the empty box.

“Go upstairs,” she said. “And unplug that video game, too.”

That was the last thing she said about the situation. After thirty days of punishment, void of phones and the ability to venture anywhere, I never called Joey again, dodged his calls and after-school doorbell rings. Taking an alternate route home from school, I felt ashamed of being caught. Embarrassed about having to use vinegar to clean. Scared of my mom’s wrath. So I simply didn’t call Joey. Our love faded away into oblivion.

“Yeah, I remember Joey,” I said to Meredith with a deep sigh. “He was actually pretty nice.”

“So how come you didn’t ever call him back?”

“Scared of my mom.”

“You never call the nice guys back,” she said, laughing. “Remember poor Monster?”

Beenie Wilson. One of the linemen on the varsity football team, he was six-two, 290 pounds, and dark as a skid mark. His overwhelming weight at sixteen made room for the nickname “Monster,” especially since you could hear his heavy wheezing as he carried himself to class.

“I dare you to kiss him,” Doreen said one afternoon at lunch. “Not a peck. But tongue and all.”

“Ill,” I said, feigning vomiting. “Why would I do that?”

“Because it’s a dare!” she said, smacking my arm. I lost balance and tripped down the hallway. “Girl, if you trip again . . . You need to loosen up. It’s just for fun. There he goes . . .”

Monster was leaning on his locker, breathing as if he were on a ventilator, wiping sweat from his forehead.

“I can’t just walk up and kiss him,” I said, turning up my lip. “I need to get to know him a little.”

Doreen sighed. “What is this?” She looked as if she couldn’t believe me. “You are so corny. Catch up to the times,” she said, rolling her eyes. “Just kiss him. If you do it, I’ll buy you lunch for a week.”

Doreen knew I hated packing my cold, mushy peanut butter and jelly sandwich with a plastic bag of potato chips every day. Always envious of those who bought pizzas, hamburgers, fries, and tacos, I’d borrow a dollar from different people daily, just to get a plate of hot cafeteria food. Mom never gave me an allowance. But I knew whose parents did.

“Okay, I can do it,” I said, watching Monster talk to his friends. “But in my way. Watch . . .”

I followed Monster into the stairwell and tugged on his shirt. “Hey, Beenie,” I said, smiling brightly. “Is that Polo?”

He seemed surprised, eyes lighting up, euphoric that a pretty girl would talk to him.

“Um, y-yeah,” he stuttered. “I got it for my birthday.”

“Okay! What’s your sign?”

“Virgo.”

“Uh-oh, perfectionist. I’m an Aquarius. We’re supposed to be good together.”

He laughed out loud, obviously not expecting that.

“Well, you look nice today,” I said, rubbing his arm. “That shirt brings out those muscles. I’ma call you later.”

He did a double take. “You got my number?”

“Not until you give it to me.”

Beenie moved faster than I’d ever seen: throwing off his backpack, kneeling down, ripping out a notebook page, and scribbling his digits on a piece of lined paper in huge numbers across the center of the page.

That night we talked, laughed, and gossiped like two lost friends who hadn’t spoken in years. I was surprised as we moved from sports to music, TV, movies, and parental complaints. Not only did the conversation flow, but he even brought up things I’d said in class a year ago. Apparently Beenie had a crush on me since the seventh grade. He admitted to being jealous and angry when he heard about my incident with Michael Tubman freshman year, while his teammates snickered about me in the locker room. But they didn’t think of me as a slut, I was relieved to hear him point out. I was just another girls’ track team challenge achieved.

By the end of the week, I asked him to be my boyfriend. Each day, he bought me lunch, shunning his friends, sitting with mine, giving me doting attention. Doreen would snicker and stare. Meredith kept a confused look on her face. And the moment he walked away, they made me feel embarrassed to be with what they saw as a monster.

“You like him?” Doreen asked, checking herself in her compact mirror. “You’re like Beauty and the Beast. You can do better, girl. Don’t settle.”

“You two are an odd couple,” Meredith chimed in, looking at me with what had come to be a familiar perplexed expression. “But if you’re happy . . .” Her words trickled off into a place of uncertainty.

“Oh my God, she is not happy.” Doreen laughed out loud. “She’s a genius. Meena is working for that free lunch.”

“Well, he buys me lunch every day,” I said, digging in my bag. “He’s actually kinda nice.”

“Girl, please. He just wants some coochie. Have you even kissed him yet?” Doreen waited for an answer, tapping her foot.

“No, you haven’t,” she said. “That’s what I thought. ’Cause he wouldn’t be all up on you like that. I mean, the whole point of the bet was for you to kiss him.”

“You’ll know if it’s meant to be,” said Meredith. “If the kiss is right, you’ll know . . .”

“And if not, cut your losses,” snapped Doreen. “Be out.”

After lunch, in the northeast stairwell, I moved next to Beenie for our first kiss. Grabbing his arm, I pulled him close. He opened his mouth wide and with a jolt forward threw his tongue down my throat. The Monster grabbed tight, bumping his teeth into mine, swallowing my mouth, touching my gums. I couldn’t breathe. His breath smelled of salt-and-vinegar potato chips covered in ketchup. Globs of saliva covered my lips as he woofed them between his sticky smackers. Instinctually I moved back, nearly falling down the stairs, until Beenie caught my arm and pulled me up. Saved by the school bell, I ran to class without a word. That night, I ignored his phone call, feigning sickness to avoid him. And the next day, in that same kiss-of-death stairwell, I killed our short-term romance.

“This isn’t gonna work,” I said. “We’re just . . . different.”

His eyes flooded with tears; he was like a giant teddy bear begging for a hug.

“Beenie was nice,” I said, glancing at his picture on my wall, phone cradled next to my ear. “I shouldn’t have done that to him.”

“Yeah, well, we were stupid in those days,” Meredith said, as I stared at a picture of her, Doreen, and I dressed as sexy cats at the junior-year Halloween party. “I mean, it is what it is. But breaking up with a nice guy like Beenie wasn’t you. That was Doreen and her peer pressure. She was so mean and fake. Negative and manipulative. I’m glad we’re not friends with her anymore.”

“Amen.”

“Although . . .” Meredith’s words trailed off.

“What?”

“I heard she just got married.”

“Doreen? To who?”

“Your old boo.”

“What? Who?”

“Jason Novack.”

I glanced at a group picture of the girls’ and boys’ track teams. The lone white guy, in the middle of a group of brothers, was Jason. At six-four, he was not only the tallest in the school but one of the most popular. A junior who’d made his way to being a standout starter on the boys’ varsity basketball and track teams, he hung out with all black guys, listened to hip-hop music, and seemed more like a brother with soul than a white boy with Czech roots. He wasn’t known for dating anything other than blondes until the day his sister Jennifer gave me a ride home after track practice. Since our after-school schedule coincided with that of the basketball team, Jennifer scooped Jason up and dropped me off on the way to their house. I’d never noticed him until he opened the car door for me, grabbed my bags, and escorted me to the steps of my porch. Before then, he’d been just a beige blur in the hallways. But the flirting turned to late-night phone calls, in-school letters, and a card and carnation on the day he finally asked me to be his girlfriend.

Things began well between us. On rare days when we didn’t have practice after school, I’d go to his house and laugh as he’d sweat. Exuding nervous shivers, he’d turn red as I took advantage of being more experienced than him; I was his first sexual encounter. I sucked on his neck and slowly kissed his lips. I pushed myself onto his body, pressuring him to have sex with me. His pale skin would turn reddish purple with a short, sixty-second suck to the neck. And I loved it, enjoying the power of control over a boy who hadn’t gone all the way with anyone other than himself. He fell in love, calling me nightly to share his heart. Things changed when he invited me over to meet his parents one evening.

“So, Meena, what does your mother do?” His mom asked this while cutting her chicken into tiny pieces. “I believe Jason said she works in finance. She deals with money, I assume?”

“Oh, no, she just answers the phones,” I said, dousing my chicken with salt, thinking Mrs. Novack must’ve forgotten to season the food. “But she’s trying to get a new job at another company, ’cause she wants to make more money.”

“Oh.” She smiled, sipping a glass of white wine. “Well, what does your father do?”

“I don’t know,” I said, shrugging my shoulders. “I haven’t seen him since I was a baby.”

Silence followed that answer. There was an awkward tension as the Novack family—Jennifer, his mother, and father—looked down at their plates simultaneously. Nervous gas bubbled in my belly. I went to grab the salt again, but Jason’s mother gave me a sharp cut of the eyes that sliced my pride. I slipped back my hands and retracted them into my lap. I couldn’t wait to leave.

Later, Jason admitted that he’d gotten into a major fight with his parents after his mother began lecturing him about “black people.”

The only thing I remember him saying about that conversation are the words his mother apparently screamed across the dinner table: “This is a white family!” She threw Jason the subtle reminder when I walked out the door. She reminded him again after seeing his hickies and running from the table in tears. He, in turn, ran the other way, out the house and down the street to a pay phone, where he called me.

I wanted to understand him and not be offended. I knew this was his parents’ ignorance and no fault of Jason’s. But at seventeen, I didn’t know how to deal with what I felt. Embarrassment? Shame? I wasn’t sure, but I couldn’t get over the reality that I was dating a child of racists. The anguish and emotional uncertainty of having never dealt with racism projected my anger onto Jason with a fury of mean insults. I began to act out toward him, the way my mother treated me: nagging, complaining, verbally abusing, and publicly humiliating him about everything—from his clothes to the way he walked. Suddenly he became a corny white boy in my eyes, not cool enough for me. Not deserving of my respect and attention. Becoming aware of our differing skin tones brought on embarrassment. Suddenly I noticed people staring at us. We’d walk in empty spaces, and I’d drop his hand when anyone we didn’t know approached. And eventually, I broke up with Jason, publicly, so everyone would know, picking a loud fight in the hallway and berating him in front of the school. The result was a beet-red shade I’d never seen his face turn. He hung his head low and ran into the boys’ locker room. We never spoke again.

“Jason Novack . . .” Meredith’s words trailed off. “I will never forget that breakup. That boy almost cried in the hallway. He really loved you.”

“I know,” I said with a sigh, staring at an old Valentine’s card he’d written that still hung on my wall. “I still feel bad about that. But his parents . . . they messed everything up. What the fuck? Do you think that’s man-curse shit?”

“No, that’s racist shit.”

“How does a bitch like Doreen get to marry a nice guy while I keep attracting these assholes?” I said, shaking my head back and forth.

“Well, she got pregnant. And you know he’s Catholic. He’s likely doing what he thinks is the right thing.”

“What? Pregnant?” I sighed, staring at my visionary poster. “I don’t know. I’ve got to figure this shit out. I need a new job. I need a new man. I need to move out of this house.”

“You need a new perspective,” Meredith said, cutting me off. “’Cause this man curse is all in your head. You made your goals. So believe, wait, and they’ll manifest. Do you believe you can have what you dream of?”

“Yeah.”

“So you will. It’s that easy,” she said, “Power of the mind, Meena. You’ll see.”

“Birthday number twenty-five,” I said, closing my eyes to pray. “Dear Lord, thank you for the day. Please bless me with success, happiness, and love. Amen.”

The next morning I overslept. A night of partying with Meredith left a hangover that made the sound of a chiming phone rock me awake with a throb of my head. In what seemed like an early-morning haze, my phone echoed from a faraway place deep down in the black hole known as my pocketbook. I messily dug in my bag, looking for the cell. Pulled it out. Dropped it. Slowly picked it up. Stretching my eyes wide to see the fuzzy vision of a 212 number. Who could be calling me from New York? Bill collectors? No, that would be an 800 number. Maybe it was Dexter calling, taking a trip to the city to get me back? No. Fuck him. Then it hit me: Buzz.

Buzz had been the hottest magazine on the entertainment scene the past year. I remember seeing their TV commercials; covering everything from music and fashion to TV and film, Buzz was always on the pulse of what’s hot and not. Thanks to a hookup from her cousin, Meredith and I had volunteered two summers ago during their Buzz music seminar week. Picked as gift-bag stuffers for a celebrity fashion show, she dragged me as her plus-one to all the hot parties, where we brushed shoulders with celebrities, drank free liquor, and grabbed expensive swag bags. Loving the fast, superstar lifestyle, I made business cards at Kinko’s with my name and number and handed them to everyone I met.

“Hey, well, here’s my card,” I’d say to whomever I bumped into at the bar. “If you’re looking for a good assistant, let me know.”

Stuffing bags at the Buzz office, I walked around and passed out my contact information. Smiling. Talking. Chatting. Making sure each person at that magazine knew my name. And for every business card I received, I sent a personalized follow-up e-mail to touch base. Three months ago, I had submitted my résumé in reply to a job-listing e-mail I’d received from someone I’d met at the seminar. Buzz was searching for an executive assistant. A few weeks later I was called in for an interview, but I’d nearly given up hope after several follow-ups and no returned call. But now, ninety days later, maybe they were finally getting back to me.

I cleared my throat.

“Hellooo.” I let the oo ring out like a morning cheer. “This is Meena.”

“Meena Butler, please.”

“Speaking.”

“Meena, this is Denise Banor from Buzz magazine. How are you?”

“Hi, Denise!”

Denise Banor was the new editor in chief of Buzz. She’d written for all the mainstream magazines in the country, had interviewed nearly every major celebrity on earth, and was queen of the publishing world after her fiction novel became a bestseller. I remember her being one of the less snooty ones at Buzz. She never talked down or made me feel like a peon, never gave me the once-over look that most in the industry would give. Denise was warm. Familiar. Cool. And I was honored to have received her call.

“Meena, I’m sorry it took so long for me to get back to you,” she said, Busta Rhymes playing in the background. It was a song I hadn’t heard before. Had to be new. “We just closed our biggest issue of the year, and—”

“Is that a new Busta Rhymes song?” I cut her off, regretting it the moment I opened my mouth. But I couldn’t help it. I loved hip-hop, and if there was anything I knew, it was rap music. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to cut you off.”

“No, it’s cool,” she said, laughing. “Yeah, a new single that drops next week. You like hip-hop?”

“Yeah. When Disaster Strikes is one of my favorite albums at the moment.”

“Good. You need hip-hop knowledge if you’re gonna work with me. But I need an assistant ASAP. I want you. If you’re ready . . .”

I didn’t know how to answer. Stuck in shock, the moment slowed down.

“Hello?”

“Um, hello,” I replied. “Um, yes.”

“Meena. You okay?”

“Yes.”

“You want to work for me? Help me get things right?”

“Yes.”

“Can you come in tomorrow to fill out paperwork?”

“Yes.”

“I assume as my assistant you’ll be saying more than ‘yes’?”

“Yes. Ooh, I mean. I’m sorry. I’m just . . . um . . . wow! Yes! I can start whenever. I am so ready. Thank you so much, Denise.”

“You’re welcome,” she said, cracking up. “But I’d rather you thank me by being a great assistant and holding me down.”

“Oh, I will. I’ll be the best ever.”